


Exhale

by morganoconner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Platonic Soulmates, Reunions, Romantic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Laura wait for a long time. Eventually, Phil comes home to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyeternal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyeternal/gifts).



> For my beautiful, darling Lady Eternal, who always gives me the best ideas. This isn't _quite_ what you asked for, bb (the prompt was for "REUNION SEX", and I only managed half of that), but I sincerely hope you enjoy it anyway. ♥
> 
> This story takes place post-Civil War, and is mostly in line with canon for both the movie-verse MCU, and with Agents of SHIELD. I think. (I'm a bit behind on AoS, but I know the general gist of what's going on.)

Clint supposed there was nothing really wrong with Canada. As countries went, it was pretty okay, and it got bonus points for granting a safe haven to a handful of runaway Avengers & Friends. So, yeah, it was okay.

But it wasn't home.

Sure, they had a farm again, and pretty nice one even. There was a house big enough for him and Laura and three kids and Sam Wilson (who didn't seem ready yet to admit defeat on the country he'd given so much to and served with pride) and Wanda Maximoff (who Clint felt a deep sense of responsibility for that he couldn't shake and didn't see the need to). There was a lot of land, a barn that probably hadn't been used in five decades, a flower garden if Laura's green thumb started tingling again, and stables for horses they didn't have but maybe could, someday. They were a good distance from town but not so far that they felt completely cut off from humanity. The kids, at least, seemed to love it.

But Clint missed _his_ farm. He missed the particular creaks and groans of the home he'd been putting back together piece by piece since he and Phil had first claimed it fourteen years ago. He missed the crayon marks on the walls, the koolaid stains on the old shaggy carpet in the playroom. He missed the quilted throws and pillows that had dominated every inch of the house, the ones Laura always made when he and Phil were both away and she was trying not to worry. He missed the tractor they'd so excitedly bought years ago, and that had never _ever_ worked. He missed the sense of _home_ , of the home he and Phil and Laura had worked so hard to build.

First they'd lost Phil, and now they'd lost that home, and Clint didn't know why the second made the first feel so much worse than it already had –

 _a deep gaping pit of black clawing away in his gut, his heart, his soul, keeping him awake and making him itch for an escape in equal measure because it hurt, it hurt_ all the time

– but it did.

Maybe if Phil had actually been dead, it would've been better in some way. Would've felt more like a fresh start and less like giving up. Because sure, Phil had left, he'd died for a little while but then he'd miraculously been back, but he'd never come home, he'd just been _gone_ , until Clint could barely feel him at all anymore and Laura said it was the same for her. So, yeah, Phil had left. But as long as he had a home to go back to, there was always a chance, a _hope_ , that someday maybe he would. Now…well, how would he find them now? If he tried to go home and found it abandoned, what would he think?

Clint was trying not to think about it, and failing miserably, and compensating by channeling all of his pent up grief and frustration and energy into time with his kids, who were at least enjoying having their dad home and provided adequate distractions even if they'd seemed to realize something was wrong.

"You're spoiling them," Laura said one rainy Saturday, when Clint was taking a break from an impromptu arts and crafts session to dig around for a snack in the refrigerator.

Clint straightened up with a small shrug, then sighed when he caught sight of her crossed arms and frown. "I know, I know, I just… I'm home right now, I'm retired, permanently and for real and also by order of the United Sates government, and I have a lot of lost time to make up for."

Laura shook her head. "Clint. We both know that's not why you're doing it."

No, it wasn't, and damn Laura for calling him on it.

Her eyes softened as his shoulder slumped, and she stepped closer, resting a hand on his arm with a gentleness he never felt like he deserved. "I miss him, too, you know. Every single day."

Clint knew she did, could see it in her eyes whenever Phil's name was mentioned, could hear it in her voice every time one of the older kids asked when their long-absent papa was coming home. But it was also different for her. She cared about Phil, as she did about Clint, and loved them both deeply. But it was a different kind of love, for all that her soul was as connected to their as Clint and Phil's were to each other. But she loved them as friends and companions, had never viewed either of them as romantic partners even when she'd helped to bring children into their odd little family unit. And while that lack of romantic love didn't lessen her pain in comparison to Clint's, not really, he couldn't stop himself from thinking that it did make it different.

Clint had been in love with Phil Coulson from the very first time Phil's voice had been in his ear, before they'd ever met face-to-face, before they'd ever realized they were soulmates. Long before Laura had even entered the picture.

"Why didn't he come home?" Clint asked now, and some of the desperate, miserable sorrow he was feeling must have slipped through his shields or into his voice, because Laura released her own choked sob and was suddenly right there, embracing him fiercely.

"Oh, Clint." She clung tighter to him. "He must have had his reasons. You SHIELD types always do." Pulling back just a little, she forced him to meet her gaze. "The one thing I know about Phil is he would never be kept away for so long willingly. And he's as stubborn as both of us combined, Clint. Whatever his reasons are, he will be home. He _will_ be. I have faith in that."

"But how will he find us?" Clint demands, making his voice rough to cover the unsteadiness, and knows her answer even before her lips quirk up that small fraction.

"Sweetheart," she says, all patience and gentleness again. "He's Phil Coulson."

*

Phil Coulson didn't feel much like Phil Coulson these days. Certainly not a Phil Coulson either of his soul-bonded partners would recognize. With the Tahiti project, and everything he'd been through since then, it was no surprise he felt a bit…scrambled. Not unlike the eggs Lila tried to make him when she was three – badly beaten, mixed with too many questionable things from the fridge, overcooked on one side and undercooked on the other, and completely unpalatable.

Okay, maybe that metaphor was a bit much. A bit.

The point was, he didn't feel like he fit in his own skin anymore, and his brain was still too much like swiss cheese to trust. He'd thought he was recovered from Tahiti, had been absolutely sure there were no more secrets lurking in some dark recess of his memory.

But somehow, impossibly, for _years_ , he hadn't remembered Clint or Laura. Hadn't felt even a hint of the connection that bound the three of them closer than language could articulate. Until everything went down between Steve and Tony, and the government got involved in ways they really had no right to, and an unmarked file had quietly come through to Phil from Fury regarding the Avengers who'd sought sanctuary outside of the borders of the United States. Some to Wakanda (Rogers and Barnes and Lang), some to Canada (everyone else), none trackable.

Clint's name in black and white in front of him for the first time in too long, and something had shaken loose, softly and then all at once, the bond, the _connection_ , flooding back in and sweeping him away on a too-strong current that had left him shaking, gasping in shuddering breaths and releasing them in heaving sobs.

That was a week ago, and seven days later, Phil was no closer to knowing what to do than he'd been when May first found him curled in on himself on the floor of his office.

She'd given him space since then, probably because Phil had been a bit harsh (there might have been a thrown stapler, at some point, and certainly more shouting than the Bus has seen in a while), but he didn't regret it and wouldn't take it back. They were supposed to be past this, past the lying and the secrets and the deceptions, and for God's sake how could she not have _told_ him? He could she…

But worse than that, worse than her betrayal, how could _he_ have forgotten? Clint in particular was so much a part of him, had shaped so much of Phil's life, and Phil had given him no more thought than a passing admiration for the work Hawkeye was doing with the Avengers. He'd forgotten Clint, forgotten their history, forgotten Laura and Cooper and Lila…God, his own _kids_. How could he have lost so much?

And even if Phil could find his family again (Canada was a big place, and he had nothing to go on, but Phil didn't give up easily and he'd tracked more difficult targets, so he was sure he _could_ ), how could he expect them to forgive him? Not knowing they had been waiting for him seemed like a piss-poor excuse, to Phil's mind.

He'd never even known to ask if Clint made it through Loki's mind control. That he obviously _had_ made no difference. Phil should have been there to help him. How could he expect Clint to forgive him for not being there?

Still, for all his reservations, for all his _fear_ , Phil knew there was nothing else for it. He had to see his family again. He had to find them. He had to _try_.

Nothing else was acceptable.

*

Spring gave way to summer gave way to autumn gave way to winter, and the seasons were different than back home, yeah, but they were still _seasons_ , and there was a weird kind of comfort in the familiar passage of time, even when so much else was so _un_ familiar these days.

Snow began to fall earlier in this part of North America, and before it got too dicey to navigate, Sam finally packed his things, gave hugs to everyone, and left to join Steve in Wakanda. It wasn't a surprising move – everyone had known from the get-go he'd do it eventually. He didn't promise to keep in touch, but Clint knew he would.

Natasha reappeared in their lives as swiftly and suddenly as she'd disappeared after the showdown between Steve and Tony, and she moved into the space Sam vacated without fanfare. Cooper and Lila were thrilled, and even Nathaniel's laughter was louder for her tummy tickles than for anyone else's. (Except for Wanda – Natey _loved_ Wanda.) Clint was grateful to have Nat there, and even more grateful when she simply embraced him and Laura and made no mention of the missing piece in their lives.

By Christmas Eve, the farm was buried under a foot and a half of snowfall, and it kept coming. The kids shrieked in delight every time they saw new flakes, while the adults shook their heads with resigned sighs. It was a good thing none of them had anywhere they needed to be, because it was pretty obvious no one was going anywhere for a while. On the plus side, unwanted visitors would also be a big improbability until it cleared up, which was always a bonus, coming from the line of work Clint came from.

Which made the knock on the door that evening a lousy omen for the quiet Christmas Clint had been hoping for. His shoulders tensed the second he heard it, as he was pulling a giant turkey out of the over.

"I'll get it," Wanda said, standing fluidly from her perch on the barstool at the kitchen counter. Clint gave her a warning look that she replied to with a short nod, and as she walked out, he saw rivulets of ruby light dancing between her fingers.

"It's probably nothing," Clint said, but that statement was entirely untrue and more for Laura's benefit than anything else, because she was watching him with a concerned look, and there was an almost overwhelming sense of trepidation leaking through the bond even though her shields were usually impeccable.

He tracked the sound of Wanda's footsteps as far as he could, but his hearing wasn't good enough to pick up the door being opened or whatever Wanda and the visitor might be saying to each other. There was no immediate shouting, so that was good, but Clint was still glad the kids were upstairs playing while they waited for dinner.

But the sudden stream of Russian curses emanating from the front of the house had him straightening quickly, shoving the turkey toward Laura as he grabbed his emergency collapsible bow from the underside of the kitchen table and an arrow from the top of the refrigerator. Natasha wasn't shouting (Natasha never shouted), but there was no mistaking the anger in her voice, and she wasn't holding back. Clint shared a wary look with Laura as he nocked his arrow and made his way through the house to the front door.

Natasha was standing directly in the doorway, one hand gripping the door so hard her knuckles were white, the other clenched into a fist by her side. Her position made it impossible for Clint to see who was standing outside, and she wasn't letting whoever it was get a word in edgewise. Wanda was standing off to the side, content to let Nat handle the apparent non-crisis, but at Clint's appearance, she glanced at him with a raised eyebrow and a shrug.

Clint knew very little Russian, mostly just the curse words (which were still pouring from Natasha with a viciousness that was actually a little startling), but he'd picked up a few things over years of having her as a partner, and he recognized the word прошло – _gone_ – even when it was hissed with such venom.

He kept his nocked arrow pointed at the floor, just in case, as he paced forward a couple steps. And then the man on the other side of the door spoke.

Clint's first thought was that he must have fallen asleep, and hell, he hoped someone woke him up before the turkey was burned beyond recognition. But then he felt something sharp nudge at him, inside, in that spot where his sense of his soulmates lived. Something that felt like distress, that same anxious trepidation he'd felt in the kitchen, and he abruptly realize the feeling didn't belong to Laura at all.

"Natasha," he croaked, and when she didn't seem to hear him, a stronger, " _Nat_."

She went still, her shoulders tightening before she turned to face him. Clint swallowed at the sight of her, because yeah, there was anger, a hell of a lot of it, but there were also tears swimming in her eyes, and Natasha Romanoff didn't cry any more than she shouted.

"Take Wanda back to the kitchen," he told her, proud of how steady he was able to make the words. "Check on the turkey for me, okay?" He knew she heard the unspoken, _check on Laura for me_ , because Laura was smarter than he was, Laura had probably already figured it out and was giving him time to figure out how to handle things.

Nat's jaw was still clenched, but she nodded and stepped away from the door. Wanda followed her with one last curious look to Clint, which Clint only saw because he couldn't - _couldn't_ – look in the doorway yet. Instead, very slowly, he relaxed the tension on his bow, breathing in and then out again as he did so.

"Clint." It was breathed like a prayer and the answer to a prayer all at once, the same sort of awe and hope and joy and fear and wonder, and spoken in a voice that was so familiar and so beloved. Clint was powerless against that voice, he realized as his feet carried him the remaining steps to the source of it, as his chest rose on a shaky indrawn breath, as his eyes dragged upwards, seeking out that steady blue gaze he hadn't seen in so, so long.

"Phil." It was barely a whisper, and Clint reached out to clutch at the door for support at the sight of Phil standing before him, eyes wide with an apology Clint didn't think he wanted to hear just yet.

"I –" Phil cut himself off, looking away, and Clint immediately wanted to yell at him not to do that, couldn't bear losing sight of Phil's eyes for even a second because that might have made this not real.

And then all of a sudden it didn't really matter why Phil was here, why he waited so long to _be_ here, how the hell he even managed to find them. " _Fuck_ ," Clint said, and launched himself at the (very solid, blissfully real) man standing before him. His bow clattered to the ground and he maybe would care about that later but probably not, because Phil was grunting with the force of his tackle and then wrapping his arms around Clint jut as tightly as Clint was clinging to him.

"Clint, I'm so –"

"No, fuck you, shut up and just let me hug you for a goddamn second." Clint buried his face in Phil's neck, and God, that familiar spicy scent of Phil's favorite cologne was like a balm to his fucking _soul_ , he could maybe actually get high off it. That felt like a distinct possibility, he decided, as he continued to breathe it in like a drug.

"Clint," Phil sighed again, tightening his own hold. "I missed you. Once I…God, I missed you so much."

Clint couldn't even reply, his words just drying up like the Sahara in the face of having Phil here, somehow, in his arms again. His skin tingled everywhere it touched Phil's, another stronger drug to his system.

Phil seemed to understand, and they stood wrapped around each other for a long moment. "Is everyone okay?" Phil finally asked, pressing the question into Clint's hair, muffling it like he was afraid of the answer. "I couldn't…there were no records _anywhere_ , if I hadn't caught wind of Natasha coming here, I don't even know if I –"

"You'd have found us," Clint said with a surety he definitely hadn't felt a couple hours ago. "You'd have found a way, Phil, come on, you tracked me for months with even less to go on, remember?" Phil hadn't been the one to bring Clint into SHIELD, not directly, but he'd been the driving force behind it. "Anyway, yeah, we're all fine, sweetheart. We've all been waiting for you."

"I'm s–"

"Shh," Clint cuts him off, pressing a kiss to the spot just above Phil's ear. "Later." He shivers, and remembers all at once that it's practically below freezing in this hellhole they now call home, and he's only wearing a t-shirt and threadbare sweatpants. "Come inside. God, Laura's probably been going nuts waiting for us."

"And the kids?" Phil asks, his voice rough, pulling back so he can read Clint's eyes when he answers, like he thinks Clint's gonna lie to him about their fucking _kids_.

"They ask about their papa all the time, babe, they'll be so happy to see you. And Nath–" Clint stopped, blinking. "Holy shit, you don't even know, oh my God." Nathaniel had been a decision Clint and Laura made alone, when the agony of missing Phil got to be too much and they needed a distraction. Maybe not the best reason to have a kid, but no one could deny that Nathaniel was well loved, and Laura's pregnancy had carried them through some of the tougher times, before they were able to find a new balance.

"What?" Phil asked, obviously alarmed now. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Clint assured him, pulling Phil back to him and pressing a soothing kiss to his forehead. "Nothing, it's just…there's a new member to our little family. I'm sorry, you should have had a say, but…"

Phil's eyes flickered between agonized and ecstatic, and while Clint was glad for the second, he wanted to get rid of the first forever. "We…you…"

" _We_ have a third little gremlin," Clint told him gently. "A son. Nathaniel. He'll be eighteen months old tomorrow."

Phil graced him with a smile that looked distinctly watery. "Natasha must have been thrilled. She's wanted a namesake from our brood for years."

"She's definitely the proudest auntie ever, I've even gotten her to hold him a couple times." Clint grinned. "Come on, come in and meet him, papa."

Phil swallowed hard, and Clint couldn't miss the new lines around his eyes, or the anxious trembling of his fingers, little changes that happened while he was too far away to track them occurring, but the Phil he recognize was also in every line of those squared shoulders and determined set to the jaw, and finally Phil nodded, took Clint's hand, and followed him into their home.

*

There had been a conversation, just before Phil had caught wind of Natasha's movements. The conversation had involved a lot of yelling, from both parties. A lot of accusations and venom and angry gesticulations, interspersed with awful silences when neither man knew what to say to the other.

But what stuck in Phil's mind the most was the quieter part that happened right at the end. The part where Nick had finally sighed, weary and resigned, sinking down into his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "Go to your family, Phil," he'd finally said. "SHIELD can't use you right now anyway."

Phil had blinked at him, brow furrowing, because even though, yes, that was what he wanted, the statement didn't make much sense. Sure, things were more stable now that Daisy was back, and May had been running the team for months now on her own, but they still needed all hands on deck, were still frantically trying to recruit when and where they could.

"You're no good to anyone if you don't trust any of us," Nick had said, watching Phil's face and frowning deeply. "And I guess I don't blame you. You got no reason to trust us. Me. I won't fight you on that. So go home. Get your freak on with your archer, kiss your kids, whatever. And come back when you can look at me without that ugly betrayal in your eyes."

"What if that never happens?" Phil had asked bluntly, tacking on a belated "Sir" when Nick had huffed at him.

"Then no one on this entire fucking planet deserves retirement more, Cheese."

Now, sitting in the living room with Clint pressed up against one side and Laura on the other, Nathaniel snoozing in his lap, Cooper and Lila seated on the floor pressed up against his legs watching a movie, and Natasha baking with Wanda in the kitchen, Phil couldn't imagine ever leaving again. Even if he forgave Nick (and he wanted to be able to, someday, wanted to be able to talk to his oldest friend again without all this anger), how could he go back, knowing this was here waiting for him?

Clint wrapped an arm around Phil's shoulders, pulling him (somehow, impossibly) closer. "Stop thinking so loud," he whispered, brushing a soft kiss across Phil's temple. "No worrying about future shit tonight, okay?"

Clint had always known him too well, Phil thought, but full of Christmas Eve turkey and with his family surrounding him, he found the order all too easy to obey.

Laura tangled her fingers with Phil's for a long moment (and it was his left hand, but if she noticed the distinct lack of feeling that should come from that skin to skin contact with a soul partner, she chose to leave it be for now), gracing him with a smile filled with warmth before she finally stood. "Okay guys, time for bed or Santa might not come."

The threat of no presents was enough to have Cooper and Lila scrambling up without so much as a minor protest. They each gave Clint hurried hugs and Phil longer ones, and Lila whispered in his ear, "I already got what I wanted, but Santa might still have a Barbie for me. Love you, Papa."

The sound Phil made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and he hugged her tighter. "Love you too, Lila-belle."

Laura gently scooped the sleeping Nathaniel from Phil's arms, and squeezed his hand one more time. "I'm so happy you're home, Phil," she said softly, and then she too disappeared up the stairs.

"Lila was four when I last saw her," Phil said, and couldn't help hating himself a little as he said it. God, they'd gotten so big since he'd been gone. "I genuinely thought they would both forget who I was."

Clint scoffed, but his eyes were gentle when he replied. "Like Laura would ever let that happen. I was gone just as much as you were, till pretty recently, and they never forgot me either." It was an exaggeration, of course, but one Phil allowed himself to appreciate. He leaned into Clint with a sigh, turning his head so his nose brushed the side of Clint's neck.

"I'm glad to be here," Phil said. Then, "No, glad isn't close to the right word. I don't know if I have a word for how happy I am right now."

"Happy, but tired, huh?" Clint asked, running a thumb under one of Phil's eyes, where he knew there were deep circles from too many sleepless nights.

"Pretty tired," Phil admitted.

"Well then," Clint said, shifting away so he could stand (Phil tried not to feel the loss of that warmth like a physical ache, but it was hard, he'd been so touch-starved for Clint for so long; even before he'd known it, he'd felt it) and pulled Phil to his feet. "Looks like it's bedtime for the kids _and_ the grown-ups." He called out a quick goodnight to Nat and Wanda, but only Wanda stuck her head out for long enough to wave them off.

"Think Natasha will forgive me anytime soon?" Phil asked, already resigned to her cold anger.

"She'll come around," Clint said. "It's not your fault."

Phil had only given him the bare-bones of what he'd gone through, what had kept him away for so long, but that seemed to be more than enough for Clint, who'd never even hinted that he wanted or needed an explanation or an apology.

"Come on. Bed," Clint urged, tugging on Phil's hand.

Bed would be good, Phil decided. Maybe curling up beside Clint, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing, would help fend off some of the jittery restlessness underneath his skin that he hadn't been able to shake in…God, so long. He nodded, and followed Clint up the stairs to the unfamiliar bedroom that, he realized with a sudden wave of joy and relief crashing over him, was now _theirs_.

*

After so much time apart – literally _years_ ¬ – Clint wondered if maybe it should be weirder, having Phil here again. But when Phil slid into the bed beside him, it was like no time had passed. They fit together as easily as they ever had, Phil’s arms coming around Clint like the best kind of muscle memory, and Clint decided if he died right here right now, at least he’d go happy.

"Sorry I’m not really up to much tonight," Phil said softly, his breath warm against Clint’s neck.

"Babe, all I want to do right now is hold you," Clint said, ignoring the sappiness because today of all days seemed like a day for sap. "We can have happy fun times later, okay? I think right now it’d probably kill me." It wasn’t even entirely an exaggeration. His heart kept pounding unevenly, anxiety that this was all in his head mixing with an elation he couldn’t remember feeling in so long it was depressing to think about. "Wouldn’t mind some skin contact, though…" He felt Phil tense, and his gut clenched. Damn it, there he went, opening his stupid big mouth again. Yeah, sure, skin contact would help ease the bond between them that had worn thin from too much time apart, but not at the expense of Phil's comfort.

"No, stop, it’s not your fault," Phil said, obviously sensing Clint’s thoughts. He ran a hand along Clint’s arm comfortingly, and it helped, a little. "It’s just…well, it’s not pretty."

Clint stared at him. "Phil. I’m not gonna judge you for whatever it is you think I don’t wanna see." And then it hit him exactly what Phil probably didn’t want him to see. The scar. "Oh…" he whispered it, but Phil closed his eyes anyway.

There had been a time, a long time actually, when Clint was so overcome with guilt over what he’d done under Loki’s mind control that the idea of Phil’s scar might have done him in. The month immediately following New York, where first Phil had been dead and then he’d been in agony and then he'd just been gone, was a rough time. If it hadn’t been for Laura, Clint wouldn’t have made it through, and that _absolutely_ is not an exaggeration. He'd been a fucking mess.

But he’d come to terms with things by now, with a lot of help from Laura and the mandated year of therapy, and he got now that none of what happened was his fault. So if Phil wanted to trust him with his scars, Clint was ready to see. He loved Phil, loved every part of him, and no battle scar was going to be ugly to Clint. Just another mark of how strong Phil really was, like he needed any proof of that.

"It's more than just the scar from the scepter," Phil said. He looked away from Clint and lifted his left hand, staring at his fingers as he moved them one by one.

Clint tilted his head, sitting up enough that he could take the hand between his own and cradle it for a moment. There was no tingling sensation, no pulse of energy like there should have been. Something in Clint's chest squeezed tight and he looked back at Phil, who was watching him with a steady gaze. "It's not real?" Clint asked, but that much was already painfully obvious. He realized suddenly that Phil had kept to his left side all night, had only touched Clint's skin with his right hand. This must have been why. God, _Phil_.

"There was an accident." Phil bit the words out like they physically pained him. "I'd have died if my team hadn't…" He stopped, swallowing. "It feels real to everyone. It should feel real to me, but it still doesn't…I can't…it's never been _right_."

"Aww, Phil," Clint whispered, and bent over the hand that couldn't feel the pulse of two joined souls meeting, pressing a kiss to the center of the palm. Phil swallowed again, then cupped Clint's face with the false hand, carding those fingers back through Clint's hair and finally pulling him down for another kiss, a real kiss.

"I love you," Clint whispered into the kiss, because wasn't just a night for sap, but also for truths he'd had to keep inside for too long. He was going to tell Phil he loved him as many times as he could get away with it.

Phil didn't respond outside of a flash of deep love and contentment from the bond, which was more than enough on its own, but then he also took Clint's hand and guided it up to the buttons of his pajama top.

"Sure?" Clint asked, hesitating, pulling back so that he could see Phil's eyes as easily as he could read their bond, which Phil was leaving wide open for him.

"Sure," Phil promised, and so Clint set to work on the buttons, fingering them open one by one, not pushing the fabric aside until each one had been pulled apart. He slid his hand between the folds and up Phil's chest until he encountered the harsh, ridged line of scar tissue. There was so much of it, and he wished to god he'd been there when it happened, that he could have stayed at Phil's bedside, helped him through the recovery.

But it was not a night for regrets, so he finally pushed the soft cotton out of the way and looked down at the havoc Loki had wreaked.

It was both better and worse than he'd imagined. Better because the angry red of a newer wound had long since faded. Better because the damage left only appeared to be skin deep, when Clint pushed his senses deeper and searched for more. Better because Phil's protests aside, it was only ugly in the sense of what was behind it to begin with. But worse, because it brought back so much of the frantic horror of that day, that month, that _year_. Worse because it was faded enough to drive home even more how long it had been. Worse because it still hurt Phil, not physically but in every other way, and Clint didn't know how to fix that. Didn't even know if it was his place to try.

Clint bent down, pressing his lips to the bottom of the scar and working his way up. Soft touches that had a sense of awed bewilderment filtering through the bond.

"Philip J. Coulson," he said when he reached the very top and brought himself back to eye level with Phil. "You're still goddamn perfect."

Phil laughed until he cried, and they clung to each other for a long time after that before finally spooning together and falling asleep as entwined as they could possibly be.

It was the easiest, best night of sleep Clint had had in years.

*

It was Laura who woke them the next morning from the dark, blissful clutches of sleep, crawling carefully onto the bed and wrapping herself against Phil's other side, her essence joining Clint's and Phil's and entwining with ease, the three-way bond flaring bright and happy.

"I was coming in to tell you that there was a phone call for you early this morning," she sighed. "And because the kids are being so good about waiting for presents and it seemed cruel to keep torturing them. But now I think I might just stay here for a bit after all."

Laura was typically more comfortable in her own space, but there were times she needed the comfort of her soulmates' touch just as much as they needed hers.

Still…

"Christmas," Clint grunted. "That's a thing that might be important, right?" Maybe his kids would forgive him if he left them hanging till noon, but it would take a while.

"Only as important as we make it," Phil sighed, but Clint could see the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and he was already dragging himself up, turning to give Laura a light kiss on the cheek before dragging himself out of bed (and taking the covers half with him and away from Clint, which was just mean).

"So who called?" Clint asked Laura as Phil made his way into the bathroom. (To his credit, only stumbling once in the process, in spite of the unfamiliar territory and his half-closed eyes.)

Laura held his cell phone out to him with a smile. "The caller ID said Steve, which is why I thought you might want to return it sooner rather than later."

Steve. Which could mean any number of things, Clint thought with no small amount of trepidation. The last time he'd gotten a call from Steve Rogers, he'd wound up in an undersea supermax, and he wasn't eager for a repeat. He _meant_ it about the retiring thing, damn it.

Then again, it was Steve. Whatever the reason, he wouldn't call Clint without a good one. With a resigned sigh, Clint swiped his thumb over the keypad and dialed the number listed under "Cap".

"Clint, hi," Steve said, just as Phil was exiting the bathroom. "Thanks for calling me back."

"Course," Clint said easily, reaching out for Phil's hand and tugging him back onto the bed, because of Clint couldn't have a cotton blanket, he'd take a human one instead. "What's up?"

"Oh, um. Well, first of all, I was just reminded that it was Christmas." Steve sounded very sheepish from however far he was down the phone line. "I'm sorry if I interrupted."

"No worries. We were just gettin' up and gearing up for the chaos ourselves. Any excuse to procrastinate that is okay in my book." Phil chuckled softly behind him, and Clint tossed a grin at him and Laura.

"Okay, well, Merry Christmas," Steve said. "And I was calling because I thought you might want to know, Bucky's awake."

Clint sat up straighter. "Wait, for real? I thought he was worried about all the shit in his brain being used by the forces of evil."

"He is. Was. It's…being taken care of." Steve huffed. "Believe it or not, Tony showed up. T'Challa was…annoyed. And surprised, but he didn't want to show it. Anyway, Tony put together…something I don't even think sounded like English when he was describing it, but it's supposed to clear out the programming."

"Steve, that's _great!_ " Actually, it was a whole lot better than great, on a lot of levels. Bucky was an okay guy, didn't deserve the shit hand he'd been dealt. And if Tony was the one helping him…that was big. That was really big.

"Yeah," Steve agreed, an _unbearably_ relieved tone to his voice. "So, maybe we'll drop in and visit once it's safe, since I hear your farm is, and I'm quoting here, ' _the_ place to be'. If…" He hesitated.

"Anytime," Clint told him, firmly. "Everyone here would love to see you guys, you know that. And…we've got a bit of a surprise here, too." He glanced back at Phil, who was staring at him with eyes that were slowly going wider when he read Clint's amusement. "Phil? Wanna say hi?"

Phil frantically shook his head, blushing scarlet.

"Phil," Steve mused. "Phil…as in…Phil Coulson? Really?"

"Yeah. Wind blew him in last night." Clint's smile widened, completely outside of his control. "So, seriously, Cap. Anytime. The more, the merrier. We'll even let Tony mooch some of Laura's pie again."

"That sounds great," Steve said, and he sounded like he meant it. "And I'm happy for you, Clint. Give Coulson, and your family, my regards. Hopefully we'll see you soon."

Thumbing the phone off, Clint leaned back against the pillows with a happy sigh. "Damn, have I got a good feeling about the next year." He didn't think he'd ever felt so optimistic in his entire life. It was a good feeling.

Laura, however, leaned over Phil to smack Clint's arm lightly. "You're not supposed to say things like that until the New Year actually starts, hon."

"No, he's right," Phil said, laughing when Clint preened. "It's going to be a good year. I can feel it."

Laura rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too wide for it to be believable. "Me too," she admitted, then tackled them both into a hug and laughed happily. "Me too."

Clint's hand found Phil's and he squeezed it tightly, meeting Phil's eyes over the top of Laura's head. The bond spun out joyfully between them, open with everything they were feeling, every single wonderful goddamn thing.

Yeah. It was gonna be a hell of a good year.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://morganoconner.tumblr.com)! :)


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